


Faithless

by CatRoofDance



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: 12 installments, M/M, Mention of sex, Mention of wounds, One Shot, Simon's POV, general unhappiness, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatRoofDance/pseuds/CatRoofDance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kieren standing in front of Amy’s house, the seconds before he enters and turns around and kisses him. This is where Simon loses control of things. He dreams of this moment. He wonders if things could’ve been different."</p><p>Simon is constantly torn between his faith and his fascination for Kieren, the First Risen, the boy he has to kill. He wants to protect him, to shelter him. But they put a knife in his hand and told him he has to make them proud. Paid him in silver smiles and made a Judas out of him.</p><p>Set before Simon gets told to sacrifice the First Risen, with flashbacks to his time in London, and ultimately, to his own death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithless

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Ischariot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203278) by [CatRoofDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatRoofDance/pseuds/CatRoofDance)



> I made a playlist for this fanfiction. You can find it here: http://8tracks.com/catroofdance/faithless
> 
> You can find the tracklist and tumblr post here: http://the-illusion-of-sanity.tumblr.com/post/92550125815/you-frighten-me-you-offer-salvation-and-freedom

__

 

_ While he was still speaking, there came a crowd,  _

_ and the man called Judas, one of the twelve, was leading them.  _

_He drew near to Jesus to kiss him, but Jesus said to him, _

_ “Judas, would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” _

** -Luke 22,47 **

 

**Faithless**

I

The fire’s light makes him look alive again. He’s sitting there, smiling, trying to remember how burning wood smells.

And God, he’s so beautiful.

 

II

They once gave him a knife. Thrust it into his hands. He remembers its weight, the coldness of the handle, his reflection in the blade. They told him to use it, assured him it was the Prophet’s will, and Simon sat on his bed one night and one day and stared at his hands and the window and the people coming and leaving again, and he thought long about it before he finally stood up and went and killed the first person he ever killed.

There were no feelings of regret or pity or fear, all that got replaced by an overwhelming sense of emptiness. Like a humming in his ribcage where his heart should be beating.

He lost the knife on his way home. Must have slipped through his fingers. Must have.

They said the Prophet would visit him but of course he never came. Sent him a message though, contorted voice and fuzzy picture. Soothing words and congratulations. And a thank you from the heavens above. Simon felt so warm and good and important, forgot about his father, that broken man in his Irish cottage, forgot to be ashamed of what he was.

 

III

The fence won’t hold them back. They all know that, even Gary with his gun hidden under his vest and his hatred hidden in his fists. They want to keep them busy so they have no time to think about their alternatives. They let them build fences and eventually they will tell them to tear them down again so they can start over.

Kieren looks like he is concentrating even though they’ve been doing the exact same thing for weeks now. He’s so cautious when he lifts the wire, picks it up in slow motion, his fingers carefully wrapped around it.

For a long while Simon thought it was because he was afraid of the wire cutting his skin, creating wounds that would never heal. But Kieren already has those, stitched together with heavy black thread like someone wanted to make a point of it. And no matter how carefully Kieren pulls at his sweater’s sleeves, sometimes Simon sees those wounds and he wonders if they go up to the crooks of his arms or if Kieren stopped halfway back then when the pain started to press through his veins and rush out of his body.

In the afternoon one of the girls starts to make a fuss, gets really aggressive, shattered irises blown wide, Simon sees it from metres away because she isn’t wearing any contacts, like most of them. Gary is there and grabs her, pushes her back a bit, shouts at her while the others just stand there and watch her head get yanked to the side when Gary slaps her.

She lifts her hand to her face, her broken eyes wide and confused, not because of the slap but because of that uncertain feeling of something missing. There should be pain here, right in her cheek, and she presses her fingers down on her dead flesh and she rubs her fingers over gray skin and feels nothing, absolutely nothing.

Kieren stares at Simon, perplexed but at the same time anxious, like he expects him to jump up, to grab Gary’s collar. But Simon doesn’t feel angry, just a memory of rage maybe, like most of the times he just remembers how it felt like so he pretends it’s there. He folds his hands into careful fists, unfolds them again, makes sure Kieren sees it. He wants to show him that he could do it. He could jump up, he could grab Gary’s collar or face or throat, and he could kill him. Right here. Just next to the fence. He did it before. He wants Kieren to know that. He wants him to know he could do it but chooses not to.

And Kieren looks like he just remembered how to shiver. So he shivers. Lifts his shoulders to his ears. Tries to hide the scars, fingers pulling at his sleeves. Always pulling.

 

IV

Kieren standing in front of Amy’s house, the seconds before he enters and turns around and kisses him. This is where Simon loses control of things. He dreams of this moment. He wonders if things could’ve been different.

 

V

“You’ll make a good disciple,” someone once said to him, stroked his fingers over his cheek, leaned in and kissed him. “You are a good person.”

He’s sick of being good sometimes. All those people watching him talk, smiling at him like he would tell them a truth they wouldn’t find otherwise. Maybe they wouldn’t. But he isn’t even sure anymore if those are his words or the Prophet’s, and so he just keeps talking. He feels overwhelmed, lost between them, so he smiles and waves and nods and shrugs his shoulders and does all those things he remembers from back in the days when blood was still pumping through his veins.

Back in London he believed all of it. Back in London he used to be one of those new kids, staring in awe and wonder at a man with a wide and inviting smile. “You’ll make a good disciple,” he would say and Simon would fall in love with him, with how he made him feel important, how he made him forget that he killed his own mother, how he’s been such a mess before, killed by his own inability to feel anything.

“You’re a good person, Simon Monroe,” the smiling man would say, and his hands were right beside his face.

 

VI

Kieren kisses him like he only has this one chance. Simon forgets he’s not supposed to fall for this boy.

 

VII

On his way back from the phone box it starts snowing and he stops right under a huge pine to listen to the silence. He’s still excited, pushes his fingers deep down his trouser pockets, pulls them out again and rubs his finger tips against one another.

_You should see him._

_He’s beautiful._

The wind is light and carries nothing but small snowflakes with it. The tree above him shakes slightly, dark and tall and heavy. Simon feels so small. And so content.

Back at the house the light’s still on even though all his people are gone, left to wander the city because they don’t feel the cold anymore. Outside on the fields the darkness is almost complete and it feels a bit like being back in the coffin, like being reborn into blackness.

When Simon enters the building he somehow hopes to find that Kieren didn’t leave after all. But the house is silent and Kieren’s gone back to his parents, probably locked himself up in his room hidden away like the family’s dirty little secret.

Simon thinks of the dinner, thinks of Gary at the other side of the table, and his fingers tremble with the distant memory of anger.

His people return later, their shoes bringing in bits of snow that melt even though the house itself isn’t heated at all. They don’t speak, just nod at him and he watches them disappear into the living room where they sit side by side, waiting for him to speak his words of wisdom, to enlighten them.

But all his words seem useless, he taught them everything he knew. Everything he stopped believing in. He gave them every piece of faith he had in his undead body and now he’s empty again, soulless, frightened.

_There’s what I believe. And then there’s you._

Kieren Walker, the First Risen, should be their saviour. Like Jesus Christ, resurrected to lead them into their heavenly kingdom. But Simon doesn’t feel blessed. He’s feeling more and more like Judas.

 

VIII

If he could he would shiver now, standing lost and confused in the barn.

Outside people are laughing and shouting. The sheep’s brain makes them go mad, just a little bit though, nothing compared to being rabid but it still makes you forget. He can hear the fire crackling, someone asks for more dry wood, other people disappear to get some.

It’s yet another party in the dark safety of the forest. Away from the fence, away from any patrolling folks with their guns cold against their skin.

Kieren didn’t want to come, refused and shook his head until he didn’t anymore, until he gave in.

“It’s people,” he said and meant all those voices and movement he couldn’t predict. The closeness of bodies. Loud music, weird accents, hands that push him, pull him, stroke his hair and skin. “Such a nice boy, such a cute face.”

It takes him almost an hour until he grabs Simon’s hand and whispers “Away, please” and all Simon can do is pull him into the dark barn, the smaller one, with all this cold hay that reminds him of a summer long ago. Kieren breathes as if he needed the air he is forcing inside his body, fighting down a small panic attack, and Simon stands there and watches him, his hands useless and gray, thumbs drawing small circles on his fingers.

Simon is a man of words. He was taught well, he mastered the warm smile and the assuring speech. He believed so much of what he said that he isn’t sure anymore if he could ever take it back. But now he can do nothing about the trembling boy who is standing in front of him, in a barn in the woods, in the middle of the night. All his words are useless, empty promises he can’t keep, like glass fingers shattering under a panicked grip.

“I’m sorry,” Kieren says and his voice sounds like he smiles weakly, his face hidden in shadows, his head bowed down to watch his feet shuffle on frozen ground.

“Don’t,” Simon says, shakes his head. The music fades away, starts again, a beat like a heart, deep and vibrating. “Don’t,” he says again and finally he steps forward, holds Kieren’s face in both his hands the way he learnt it in the last weeks, holds it and holds it and says “You’re a good person, Kieren Walker,” and kisses him so very carefully.

Kieren grips his jumper, leans closer, hands moving up his body, resting over where his heart was, kisses back like he just waited for Simon to finally, finally get the hint. Eventually he wraps his arms around Simon’s hip, breaks the kiss and rests his head against his shoulder.

Simon presses his hand against Kieren’s neck, his fingers reaching for his hair, holds him, his other hand on the small of his back.

“I don’t get you,” Kieren says against his jumper and Simon thinks of how he never wore jumpers before he died, how he wore leather jackets and band shirts and drainpipe jeans. “You frighten me. You offer salvation and freedom and hope and you give all that away with a wide smile, and yet here you are, confused and lost and faithless. You give it all away and they take it and make a weapon out of it.”

Simon holds him closer. Wants to tell him that everything changed now that he found out. Everything has a purpose now. The Prophet will know what to do.

_I found the First Risen._

But the second he opens his mouth to speak he realises he doesn’t even believe that himself. He has no idea how the Prophet plans to save them all. For all he knows ‘saving them’ could mean strapping a bomb to everybody’s chest.

“Tell me what to do,” Simon says, “because you’re right. I’m lost. What should I do?”

_There’s what I believed in. It was there. But now it’s gone. Now there’s only you._

And Kieren shakes his head, looks up at him, eyes human, skin hidden under layers and layers and layers of cover-up, kisses him again and speaks against his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“I don’t know,” he says, and again, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

 

IX

There are many things they can’t do anymore. Crying is one of them. And still, it’s like breathing, he can’t unlearn it. He lifts his shoulders, trembles, grimaces. He shouts and smashes a glass on the wall, picks up the fragments later, cuts his fingers, curses in old Gaelic words.

 

X

Back in London the man with the smile would invite him to his room after his lectures. Fingers tracing the gap over his spine, a weird fascination in his dead eyes. Simon likes to think that this man loved him, it’s the closest thing he ever had anyway.

They can’t have sex of course, that’s not how their bodies work anymore. But they can touch each other and imagine what it feels like. Sometimes there are sparks of information, nerve endings who refused to die completely, sending half-hearted signals to a sleep-walking brain.

Simon dreams of the man back in London, of the time when things seemed easier. Never knew his name, never asked for it, never wanted to know. Called him ‘Saviour’ and ‘Messiah’ and ‘Christ’ instead, names that would’ve been blasphemous weren’t it for the Prophet who used them first. Assured them of their blessing by God.

_Oh Lord above._

They used to tell him that God himself brought them back. So they could fulfil their deed. And Simon believed it.

The smiling man puts a knife in his hand and says “It’s what the Prophet wants. It’s what God wants” and Simon thinks and goes and kills, and when he returns the smiling man kisses him, strokes his hair. “So proud, Simon, so proud.”

 

XI

The first and only pain he ever felt after The Rising is in the moment they tell him to sacrifice the First Risen.

He doesn’t understand at first, stares at the screen of the old TV they use to play the Prophet’s messages with. He stares and waits and then finally the pain explodes in his chest, stuns him, and unable to move he forgets how to breathe.

They give him more than a knife this time, he’s been a good disciple, and they expect so much from him now.

Simon tries to find out where he went wrong. Traces his own steps back and back and back, tries to find the point where everything went to hell. Thinks of his frightened look in front of Amy’s house, thinks of the first time he reached for Kieren’s hands back at the fire, thinks of Amy talking about that boy back home, about his shy smile and the way he runs, like he forgot how to do it.

Further back is his father and how he makes him eat fries, pretending for a while that nothing ever happened while the smell of his wife still lingered in the house. And then there’s John who broke his promise, who opened him up and never closed him again.

He prays to God that night, he wants him to take his gift back. He thinks about killing himself, it wouldn’t be impossible, hard, but not impossible, a well placed shot to the head maybe, but when he closes his eyes he sees the thick dark stitches that run up Kieren’s arms, all the way up because back then Kieren wasn’t afraid. And it hurts so much to think of him sitting in that cave, sleeves all pulled up, not stopping, not doubting his decision for one second.

And he thinks: How unfair that God brought Kieren back just to get him killed again. To let him die for all our sins.

_Judas, must you betray me with a kiss._

And the blade in his hand shines silver and cold.

 

XII

That last shot, the golden one, it was the first one he really felt. He sighed when the heroin rushed through his veins, and then he smiled. When they found him, they said, he looked like he was still alive and happy. Like he finally found what he was looking for all this time. Like death has been the answer to all his prayers.

_Please, let me feel, God, dear God, oh, please, please, let me be able to love._

And God listened and let him be reborn.

 


End file.
